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Full text of "To The Lighthouse"

TIME   PASSES

that as she lurched, dusting, wiping, she seemed
to say how it was one long sorrow and trouble,
how it was getting up and going to bed again,
and bringing things out and putting them away
again. It was not easy or snug this world she had
known for close on seventy years. Bowed down
she was with weariness. How long, she asked,
creaking and groaning on her knees under the
bed, dusting the boards, how long shall it endure?
but hobbled to her feet again, pulled herself up,
and again with her sidelong leer which slipped and
turned aside even from her own face, and her own
sorrows, stood and gaped in the glass, aimlessly
smiling, and began again the old amble and
hobble, taking up mats, putting down china,
looking sideways in the glass, as if, after all, she
had her consolations, as if indeed there twined
about her dirge some incorrigible hope. Visions
of joy there must have been at the wash-tub, say
with her children (yet two had been base-born
and one had deserted her), at the public-house,
drinking; turning over scraps in her drawers.
Some cleavage of the dark there must have been,
some channel in the depths of obscurity through
which light enough issued to twist her face grin-
ning in the glass and make her, turning to her
job again, mumble out the old music hall song.
Meanwhile the mystic, the visionary, walked the

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